


Imperative

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Anal Sex, Djinn Equip, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-01-14 11:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18475558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Sinbad has only one member of his audience now, and Ja’far isn’t even lifting his head to look back at him; but the groan in Ja’far’s throat strokes the lightning in Sinbad’s blood to the tension of flame, and he smiles satisfaction to hear it." Sinbad makes inventive use of his Djinn Equip to get what he wants from his royal advisor.





	Imperative

Sinbad loves using his Djinn Equip.

It feels good. There’s a rush to the power of it, to the feel of something enormous and foreign in its size and scope settling into the span of his body and fitting itself to the shape of his limbs. The Djinn are pure dominance, larger and stronger and bigger than any human could ever be, than even Sinbad could ever hope for; and they have contracted with him, have formed an agreement that gives him the ability to call on them whenever he requires. The thrill of it is intoxicating even in the crises where he usually makes use of them, in the midst of a tide of combat that turns for a crackle of electricity, for a single beat of shadow-heavy wings; but best of all are those moments when he draws the power, the strength, the _presence_ of some grand, inhuman, foreign thing into the confines of his body and makes use of it for his own purely selfish ends.

“ _Ah_.” The sound is abrupt, cut off by the set of Ja’far’s jaw to hold back the whimper in his throat, but his intentional silence hardly does anything to hide his reaction. Sinbad has him stripped to pale skin, has him braced belly-down atop the tangled sheets of the bed Sinbad more often uses to this end than for sleeping, and the tension of heat in the other’s body is clear in the curl of his fingers into the blankets beneath them as much as in the work of lean muscle along freckle-marked shoulders. “Fuck, _Sin_.”

“Working on it,” Sinbad purrs. His voice is his own, untouched by the effect of the Djinn crackling lightning under his scale-marked skin, but the rest of him feels bigger in strength if not also in truth. His fingers are longer, his palms broader, large enough to support the length of the clawed nails that he is bracing carefully against Ja’far’s hips to hold the other steady; his vision is clearer, too, granted a piercing intensity that urges him to appreciate the artistry in every droplet of sweat sliding over Ja’far’s skin, in every wrinkle of shadow in the sheets tangling beneath their bodies. His own body feels taut, stretched to electric tension between the ocean-blue scales that have scattered themselves across his shoulders and over the tops of his thighs; when Sinbad moves forward to sink himself deeper into Ja’far before him he can feel the strength rippling through his body in a wave, cresting and surging through him to hint at untapped power begging to be spent. He shifts the weight of his tail -- a part of him, now, as easy to move at a thought as his knee or the flex of his fingers -- and counterbalances himself so he can pull back with impossible slowness, can slide forward with as much deliberate grace as that with which he might arrange himself before a cheering crowd. He has only one member of his audience now, and Ja’far isn’t even lifting his head to look back at him; but the groan in Ja’far’s throat strokes the lightning in Sinbad’s blood to the tension of flame, and Sinbad smiles satisfaction to hear it.

“So what do you think?” he asks, in the most casual tone he can offer. He flexes his fingers gently against Ja’far’s hips: not enough to tear through the delicate skin, but sufficient to suggest the possibility to Ja’far’s thoughts and raise the flush of friction to glow under the weight of his grip. “Is it better this way?” Sinbad angles his shoulders forward, leaning into the unfamiliar balance offered by the heavy tail spread out behind him; his body casts Ja’far into shadow beneath him, eclipsing the other’s moon-pale skin with the sun-dark tan of his own before he rocks his hips through another slow thrust to sink his cock deep and pull Ja’far’s shoulders straining-tight on his response. “We could try one of the others too, you know, if you like the novelty of it.”

“I know,” Ja’far says into the sheets of the bed under him. When he turns his head his hair rumples over his forehead, tangling at the pillow beneath him as he casts his gaze sideways to give Sinbad an unimpressed look. “I’m not going to forget how many Djinn you’ve captured, Sin.”

Sinbad flashes his teeth into his most charming smile. “More than anyone,” he says, and presses a little harder on Ja’far’s hips to steady himself so he can lean in over the other’s bare shoulders. The weight of his hair down his back slides with the action, a lock of it sliding free to spill over Ja’far’s bare shoulder; with the blue coloring of the Equip it looks like water trickling cool over the sweat-flushed damp of the other’s body. “Pretty impressive, don’t you think?”

“Don’t beg for compliments,” Ja’far says, and turns his head down against the pillows again so all Sinbad can see of him is the white of his rumpled hair. “Your ego doesn’t need any more stroking, least of all from me.”

“Mm,” Sinbad hums, considering the slant of Ja’far’s shoulders and the tension in his fingers curled into the sheets underneath them. The other has his hands half-hidden, one under the spill of his hair and the other almost entirely within the shadow of his shoulder, but the wrinkles in the fabric beneath them give away the strain of the fists he has on the sheets, even if Sinbad couldn’t feel the tremors in the body beneath his own as clearly as he can see them thrumming under Ja’far’s skin. “You think so?”

“I _know_ so,” Ja’far says, and turns his head to look back at Sinbad behind him again. “If no one else in all your kingdom will tell you, I--” and Sinbad snaps his hips forward, moving into Ja’far with the full force of the Djinn bleeding itself into his veins, and Ja’far’s words break off so suddenly that they whimper in his throat as the remaining air leaves his lungs.

“If no one else will,” Sinbad repeats, dragging the words over the back of his throat until they rumble like thunder in the span of his chest. “What will you do, Ja’far?” He slides his hands up a little higher, drawing away from Ja’far’s hips so he can frame the curve of the other’s waist between his palms instead; when he takes another thrust forward Ja’far shifts against the bed, sliding in spite of his grip at the sheets until the hold of Sinbad’s scale-textured fingers catches him still. “You were going to tell me.”

“You’re awful,” Ja’far says, gritting the words past tight-clenched teeth as his fingers flex and pull at the sheets. “You’re arrogant and full of yourself and you think you’re perfect at _everything_.”

Sinbad hums again. “And I’m not?”

Ja’far coughs a laugh against the pillows. “What did I just say, Sin?”

Sinbad shifts his position against the sheets. His knees are braced between Ja’far’s, the blue-scaled texture of his thighs pinning the other’s pale legs apart; he leans into his hold on Ja’far’s waist so he can steady his balance and lift one knee up and over Ja’far’s, to catch the other’s leg between his instead of bracketing his position. Ja’far gusts a breath but doesn’t offer any protest, and when Sinbad slides his leg in to push Ja’far’s knee closer to the center of the sheets Ja’far moves with as much obedience as Sinbad has ever earned from him.

“You said I was confident,” Sinbad says, and presses to hold Ja’far still against the sheets so he can lift his other knee to the outside of Ja’far’s and catch the other’s legs between his own. “That I was self-assured and decisive.” He presses at the outside of Ja’far’s angled-open knee to bring the other’s thighs pressing together and fixed close between his own; he can feel the strain running through the other’s body more clearly like this, from the tremor in Ja’far’s legs to the flex of his shoulders to the heat of his body tensing anticipation against the length of Sinbad’s cock inside him. When he draws his hips back he can feel the friction of the movement spark up his spine, skipping heat up his back to dip weight into his lashes and knot anticipation deep in his stomach.

“And that I’m perfect,” Sinbad purrs, spilling the words over his tongue like he’s savoring their taste, and he rocks forward to urge himself deep into the grip of Ja’far’s body. Ja’far jerks beneath him, the muscle in his thighs jumping with reflexive response to the feel of Sinbad inside him, but Sinbad’s knees are pressing tight to hold the other steady and the only response he has leeway to give is the ripple of tension across his shoulders that comes with the wordless moan in his throat. Sinbad smiles down at Ja’far’s bare shoulders, and tips himself in over Ja’far’s back to fit his scale-patterned chest to the curve of the other’s spine and breathe the heat of his exhale to ruffle through Ja’far’s pale hair. “That was it, right?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Ja’far manages. His elbow slides against the bed to brace under him so he can push himself off the sheets and against the support of Sinbad’s chest; Sinbad lets his hand at Ja’far’s waist ease and slide around to catch under the span of the other’s body and hold Ja’far back against him by his own action as much as Ja’far’s. Ja’far ducks his head forward to press his forehead to the pillows beneath them and gasps a breath against the sheets like he’s trying to find air from the thunderstorm heat filling the room with strain. “I don’t know why anyone decides to follow you.”

“Yes you do.” Sinbad ducks his head in over Ja’far’s skin, right where the strain of his neck meets the freckled pale of his shoulder. The jewel at Sinbad’s forehead catches at Ja’far’s hair and Ja’far tips his head to the side in surrender even before Sinbad fits his lips to press a kiss against the other’s skin. “You did, Ja’far.”

“That’s different,” Ja’far says, but his voice is straining and his body is hot and Sinbad can feel the struggle for words in the other’s chest under the band of his hold. Sinbad dips his head closer, shuts his eyes so he can focus his attention on the taste of Ja’far’s skin under his lips and the strain of Ja’far’s voice in the air around them as he slides his other hand at Ja’far’s waist across and down, spreading his Djinn-scaled fingers wide to span the tension at the other’s abdomen before dragging down towards the angle of his hips and the aching strain of his cock. “It was different for me.”

“Yes,” Sinbad says against Ja’far’s shoulder, and draws his hand down to catch Ja’far’s cock in the span between his thumb and forefinger before he wraps his fingers into an inverted hold on the other. He has to be delicate with the edges of claws skimming fragile skin, but when he tightens his grip and pulls down it’s worth the consideration for the sound Ja’far makes, a moan so far in the back of his throat it sounds as much pained as pleasured. “Tell me, what was it like for you?”

Ja’far gusts a laugh, the sound so strained it carries more breathlessness than amusement. “Sin, you--” and Sinbad lets his hips pull back, lets reflex bear him forward, and Ja’far loses all his speech to the involuntary tension in his chest that makes his exhale a wail of sensation.

“I know,” Sinbad says, answering Ja’far’s statement without really needing to hear it. “I want to hear it.” He takes another stroke with his hips, long and appreciative so he can feel Ja’far’s cock strain in his grip in answer. “Tell me again, Ja’far.”

Ja’far draws a breath, pulling it into his lungs like he’s bracing himself for further resistance; but then Sinbad flexes his wrist, and tightens his hold around the other’s chest, and whatever Ja’far was going to say gives way to a sigh of resignation instead. His head tips forward, his shoulders ease, and when he takes another inhale there is something of calm under it, the relief that comes with surrender to the inevitable at last.

“You were so _much_ ,” Ja’far says. Sinbad turns his head to work farther up the line of Ja’far’s throat and urge his lips nearer to the hum of the other’s words and Ja’far angles his head into answer, baring his neck for the weight of Sinbad’s lips without hesitation in giving up the intimacy of his pulse to the other’s attentions. “You were loud and cocky and clever and warm and--” as his breath catches, as his shoulders tense.

Sinbad opens his eyes and lifts his gaze without moving from the line of kisses he’s fitting to Ja’far’s neck. He can see the part of Ja’far’s lips, silence given shape by the unvoiced words on the other’s tongue. He presses his mouth to a lingering kiss against the line of the other’s jaw before he speaks, soft with persuasion. “And?”

“You weren’t afraid of me,” Ja’far blurts. “Even when I tried to kill you. Even when I was possessed. Even when you _should_ have been afraid of me.”

“Mm,” Sinbad hums, acknowledgment without an answer. He comes past Ja’far’s jawline, up to skim his mouth against the scattered freckles at the other’s cheek before pressing closer to urge his lips to the edge of Ja’far’s heated breathing. “I don’t like being afraid of things.”

Ja’far huffs a laugh and tips his head to the side. His hair catches at the jewel at Sinbad’s forehead, tangling to a knot before it tugs loose. “But you do like this?”

Sinbad grins. “I do,” he says, and lets his hips come forward to punctuate with force enough to dip Ja’far’s lashes and drop his mouth soft on sensation. Sinbad urges closer, pressing his forehead to Ja’far’s and stealing breath from the part of the other’s lips as he struggles for it. “I like this, and you, and you like this.” Ja’far whimpers when Sinbad catches the other’s lips with his own but Sinbad keeps the contact, laying claim to Ja’far’s mouth while he slides his grip down to stroke Ja’far into trembling tension. By the time he lets the other go Ja’far’s lashes are heavy over his eyes, his freckled cheeks are flushed red with heat, and if he’s still holding himself up it’s only by the force of his fingers curling to fists against the blankets beneath them.

“Ja’far,” Sinbad purrs, and he tightens his hold around the other’s chest, and flexes his knees to brace the other still. “Tell me.” His grip fixes around Ja’far’s cock, his thighs work to draw him back for the solid force of a thrust; Ja’far chokes off a breath in the back of his throat, his body tightening around Sinbad as his cock twitches with heat in the other’s hold. “Why did you follow me?” Another thrust, faster this time, moving towards a greater rhythm as Sinbad works the drag of his thumb up over Ja’far in his grip, letting the strange texture patterning his skin urge a moan free of the other’s throat. “Why are you still with me?”

“Fuck,” Ja’far grates, his voice jumping to breathless heights in his throat. “Sin.”

“Why, Ja’far?” Sinbad turns his head to fit his lips almost against the shape of Ja’far’s ear, so close even the heated rasp of his breathing will sound thunderstorm-loud to the other’s hearing. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

Ja’far’s jaw flexes, his teeth press together. “Because--” His breath sticks, his exhale whines. “Because I’m in love with you, Sin.”

Sinbad lets himself sigh, heavy as if with resignation. “Ja’far,” he says, and eases his grip against the other’s cock for a moment, enough to let the strain of desire pull against his palm for a breath. Ja’far gusts an exhale, something between relieved and surprised, and Sinbad tips his head to press to the other’s hair as he takes a breath to speak.

“I know,” he says, purring the words down in the depths of his chest, and he tightens his grip before Ja’far has a chance to even draw an inhale to protest this dodge. Ja’far’s shoulders flex, his head angles back, and Sinbad pins the other still against him and strokes over him, working as much with his grip on Ja’far’s cock as with the thrust of his hips. Ja’far’s gasping air, dragging it into his chest as his fingers curl, as his back arches, and Sinbad presses his thumb up and against the other’s length and feels Ja’far spasm against him in the first rush of sensation even before his cock jumps with the spill of his release. Ja’far’s chest works on a groan, his neck strains, and Sinbad presses his face against a pale shoulder and drives forward and into him to ride the wave of Ja’far’s orgasm into the crest of his own. Ja’far quakes beneath him, his body clenching around Sinbad’s as his cock pulses within the other’s grip, and Sinbad drags a deep lungful of air and groans it into “ _Ja’far_ ” as his body jolts forward with the force of pleasure. His shoulders hunch to hold him closer, his tail lashes to drive him forward, and Sinbad spends the whole of his air on a moan of heat as he spills himself into Ja’far’s surrender.

Sinbad’s Djinn Equip gives way along with his attention. It’s easier to fit the foreign shape to his body when he has a specific goal in mind, whether that’s combat or otherwise, but with his breathing dragging on the heat of his own satisfaction and Ja’far trembling underneath him with his own, even Sinbad’s focus must give way to relief. His skin softens, his hair darkens, his vision hazes, and when the weight of his tail gives way his forward lean bears him down to the sheets along with Ja’far. They land heavily, with Sinbad’s weight atop Ja’far’s to crush the breath from the other in a gusty exhale, but Sinbad only lingers long enough to urge another kiss against the other’s shoulder before he turns his attention to drawing himself back and away from the sweat-heat of Ja’far’s body beneath his. Ja’far shudders with the friction as Sinbad slides his hand free, and then again with the motion of the other’s hips to pull them apart, but he doesn’t roll away as Sinbad falls heavy to the sheets alongside him, just eases his hold at the sheets to stretch one arm up over his head and turns his head to press his flushed cheek to the pillow beneath him. Sinbad draws a deep breath, relishing the strain of it in his lungs before he gusts it out with as much satisfaction as he claimed it, and it’s only then that he turns his head to the side to fix his attention on Ja’far.

Ja’far is watching him. His face is still turned down close against the pillows, his hair sweat-dark and tangled across his forehead, but even in the shadows Sinbad can see the attention of one dark eye fixed on him, clear-focused even while Ja’far’s shoulders are still working on his effort to catch his breathing back under control. Sinbad meets the other’s gaze without flinching, holding Ja’far’s attention while he eases himself into a smile that has more shadows on it than flirtation.

“You probably should be,” he says conversationally. “As a matter of self-preservation, if nothing else.”

Ja’far raises an eyebrow before pressing his arm to the bed and pushing himself up on his elbows so he can gain the advantage of height on Sinbad’s languid sprawl. “Should be what?” His tone is acerbic, biting as if with the threat of the blade he held to Sinbad’s throat the night they first met. “In love with you, or afraid of you?”

Sinbad’s smile pulls wider. “I’d like both.”

Ja’far snorts. “You’ll get one,” he says, and pushes to sit up entirely before lifting a hand to urge his hair back from his face. He’s still flushed with heat, over his shoulders and across his cheeks and down against the tops of his thighs where he’s kneeling against the bed, but he’s wrapping self-assurance back around himself as if he’s drawing himself into the cover of his clothes without consideration for how much of his body is still on display for Sinbad’s appreciation. “You shouldn’t always get what you want, it’s not good for you.”

Sinbad laughs. “No?” he says, and reaches out to touch his fingers against Ja’far’s hip. There’s a pattern of red there, the marks of almost-bruises laid out in the shape of an oversized hand, but when Sinbad turns his fingers to fit them they’re too broad for him to quite reach. “How can you be so sure?” Ja’far rolls his eyes in answer, but Sinbad just grins up at him, and when he tugs Ja’far tips forward with perfect obedience to the urging of his hold. He lands across the sheets alongside Sinbad, turned in to face the other as if compelled to it, and Sinbad is waiting for him, lifting his free hand to catch at Ja’far’s hair and push it back behind his ear as he cradles the other’s head against his palm.

“Ja’far,” he says, smoothing the other’s name to warmth as he turns his head to smile at the set of Ja’far’s mouth. “I love you too.”

Ja’far huffs. “Yes,” he says, his tone bright on teasing. “I know.”

Sinbad laughs. “Good,” he says, and draws Ja’far down to urge into the surrender of the other’s mouth against his.


End file.
